Honest Man
by Irena K
Summary: Undercover work isn't all it's cracked up to be...


Disclaimer: They belong to Top Cow, TNT, Warner Bros., and probably a bunch of other people who are not me.

Feedback: is a girl's best friend. Constructive criticism, as always, is encouraged.

Author's note: What happens when you watch reruns and get bored. Now revised because typos suck, yo.

PG For bad language

HONEST MAN

Jake searches the FBI's extensive criminal database at least once a week. He's grown accustomed to not finding anything, the names leading to dead ends and more questions. He still looks, though, out of habit, reflex, never knowing when he just possibly may get lucky.

This week's winner: Ian Nottingham. Jake doesn't like Nottingham. Not surprising, since Ian had done his best to beat him to death. But it goes beyond that. Nottingham has a…strange relationship with Sara, to say the least, and that makes Jake distinctly uncomfortable. Puts Sara in a bad spot, with a man who seems to acquiesce to her orders but has displayed loyalty to someone else entirely. Doesn't help that Nottingham has come closest to blowing his cover, either. On reflection, he's glad he lost his cool, punched the smug son of a bitch, just as long as he shut the hell up and stopped asking questions that would send six months of undercover work straight down the toilet.

The computer beeps. He has a hit. Small one, only in reference to Nottingham's ties to Kenneth Irons. Irons has been on the Bureau's hit list for some time now, but most everyone has pretty much given up ever getting their hands on him. Even taking down Nottingham wouldn't make a big difference, not in the long run. Too slick, too smart, and too many lined pockets.

Jake types in a few more commands and smirks at what he sees. Seems the IRS would like a peek into Irons Industries' records, too. That'd be something – Irons avoids prison for arms smuggling, gets it for tax fraud. Not so far-fetched, really. Worked for Capone.

He sighs, glances over at Sara's empty desk. They're both proponents of organized chaos. Doesn't matter if no one else can find anything as long as they can. Papers and file folders piled up haphazardly, notes written to themselves, to each other, little, yellow post-its on the computer monitors, connecting them, if only briefly. 'Pez, checked Hazelman – no record.' 'Jake – pizza tonight?' 'Dentist appt. – Tues. 2:30.'

Biggest difference is the pictures. Sara isn't sentimental, but she has a few; one of her father in his dress blues; another of her academy graduation; and one of Danny Woo, off work, smiling, happier times.

Jake has no photographs on his desk.

Sara walks through the door. He doesn't look up, closes his log-in screen, calm, not like he wants to hide anything but as if he always intended to do that. Shoulders slump a smidgen more, gum chewing becomes more pronounced, perfect display of boredom. Sara produces a cup of coffee for him.

"One cream, three sugars?"

"You know me well."

She hands him the coffee and their fingers brush briefly. Sara has rough hands, weathered from work, cold, the nails worn and ragged. She chews on them out of absent habit, usually when deep in casework. Only one ring she wears occasionally – he thinks it was her mother's. And, of course, the silver bracelet with its intricate weaving and strange red stone. Every time he sees it, he reminds himself to ask her about it. Every time, he forgets.

"Something the matter?"

Shit. He's been staring. Crooked smile, duck the head, if he could make himself blush on command he would. "Sorry. Liked the view."

Beat. She raises an eyebrow, unsure how to respond, not really believing him. Part of what he likes about her – she doesn't completely buy his doofus routine, knows he's not telling her everything. 'Course, that's what makes her dangerous, too.

"Riiiight."

Dismisses his goof, lets it go as another weird Jake thing and turns back to work. Jake nods to himself. Crisis averted.

***

Bruno Dante's office and, surprise, he's reading them the riot act again. If he's there with Sara, Jake always stands physically behind her, usually leaning against the wall by the door, nervously chewing on a toothpick. Don't mind me, I'm the scared-shit rookie, let my partner take the heat. And, hey, if that gives the impression he's resentful, so much the better.

"Have you seen the news, lately? I do not need this department's good name dragged through the fucking mud, Pezzini."

Pronounced "Pet-zini." Jake's surprised she hasn't called him on that yet. He imagines a frustrated Sara finally snapping, grabbing Dante by the lapels and yelling, "_Pez_zini! It's _Pez_zini!"

An amusing image and Jake has to hide his grin by faking a cough.

Sara holds her ground. "Captain, I promise you that I haven't spoken to any member of the press regarding you or any of our current investigations."

Jake happens to know that Sara would rather be dragged over hot coals than deal with reporters. He lays odds that Dante knows that, too, and is just looking for someone to scapegoat over some recent negative commentaries by the local media. Jake adds one more item to the List Of Things He Doesn't Like About Bruno Dante.

"Watch yourself, Pezzini." Pet-zini. "You cross the line, and I will personally bust your ass back to traffic cop, you get me?"

"Yes, Captain, understood."

"Now get out of here. McCartey, a word."

Sara gives him a questioning look. Jake shrugs – hell if I know. Her eyes narrow and he knows she's thinking about just how many of these private meetings he's had with Dante lately. She finally leaves without a word. He makes a silent promise to explain everything when he can.

Dante rises, walks around his desk, leans against it. Wants to appear easy-going, friendly, hey, just us guys here, right? "Thought we discussed keeping an eye on her."

A nice attempt at social engineering, but Jake happens to be a lot more talented at it. He shifts, stands away from the wall, sticks his hands in his pockets. When alone with Dante, he tends to slouch more, leaning towards the captain ever so slightly. Young and stupid looking, he was told it's his biggest advantage in undercover work when he first started out. He got insulted, but he's learned how to use it. Gives the impression of laziness mixed with ambition. "Sorry, sir. But honestly, I've never seen her talk to a reporter."

Delicate balance to seem eager but not too eager, less he gives the game away too quickly. Cops learn the value of a partner – betraying one isn't something to be taken lightly, even by one like him. Gives Dante exactly what he wants, lets the captain think that he was tempted to the dark side purely by Dante's own persuasiveness.

"Doesn't matter. People like her, they need constant supervision, make sure they don't stray too far out of place."

Don't let those females get too uppity, he means. Jake's heard a million different variations of this one from the good captain already. He adds "sexist jackass" to the List and nods knowingly. "Right. Gotcha."

"Excellent. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir." Thank you, sir. May I please have another, sir?

The important part is the potential. Dante would never approach him if he didn't think the Bulls would appeal to Jake on some level. It's not any displayed violence that gives him an in, it's the potential for it. And it's the potential that's the rope Dante will use to hang himself.

Jake can't wait to see the look on Dante's face when he finds out his newest recruit is the one who brought him down.

***

Sara waits for him outside, pretending to read next month's schedule. She approaches as he closes the door behind him. "What was that about?"

Jake shrugs and answers truthfully, "Dante doesn't like you."

She rolls her eyes. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Look on the bright side: at least the feeling's mutual."

"I'm not sure that's a bright side. More like a now-we're-even side."

"Tomato, to-mah-to. Any requests for dinner?"

"Nah, just pick up whatever."

He retrieves his coat from their office and heads out. He pauses to flirt with one of the civilian aides who's been giving him the eye for the past two weeks. She's cute, small, blonde, nice figure. Reminds him of home. No intent to follow up on this, though. Last thing he needs is any entanglements here. Still, it helps his image. Dumb, blonde surfer, probably still smokes up on his weekends.

True, Jake does surf and while _a_ Jake McCartey won the '95 surfing championships, he is not _that_ Jake McCartey. Just part of the cover. In 1995, he was still at Quantico and too busy to sleep, let alone surf.

Gives the aide a wink before he leaves for good. Passes by Orlinsky on his way out and receives a glare. No love lost between them. Jake grins and gives the sour old bastard a little hang-ten wave, only pinkie and thumb raised. Cowabunga, dude.

Yanking Orlinsky's chain is one of the few times the _real_ Jake comes out to play. One of many reasons why Jake can not get back to LA fast enough.

***

Seven o'clock and it's going to be another late night.

Jake has finally found a decent sushi place nearby and ordered dinner for two from there. Sara complained about the horror of uncooked fish, made a crack about Jake and California rolls, then discovered she actually liked it. She's currently stealing another piece of eel from Jake's plate. He hasn't told her what it is yet and hopes she doesn't kill him when she finds out.

"Have you talked to Profacci yet?" Slurp! The eel disappears between her lips. Jake never thought sushi was particularly sexy, but has to admit that watching Sara eat is kind of a turn-on. Weird, but that's Sara for you.

He nods. "Promised he'd turn in the witness statement first thing tomorrow morning."

"You do realize this is Profacci the Procrastinator we're talking about, right?"

"What can I say? I'm the trusting sort."

"Boy, are you ever in the wrong line of work then."

Shared grins and the conversation turns to other cases. Jake continues to surreptitiously observe Sara. He's not sure how it happened, really, that she went from being Pezzini to being Sara. Pezzini was a potential suspect, someone who the Bulls could take interest in, who walked away from massacres and explosions with barely a scratch on her, who drew attention because so many of her suspects turned up dead. But Sara is just – Sara. Who likes Jackie Chan and plays the drums and once fell out of a treehouse when she was seven and has been nervous around heights ever since. Who adored her father and admired Danny Woo and was head over heels in love with Conchobar. Sara, who's capable of great warmth underneath that caustic, brittle exterior although she'd kick your head in if you ever mentioned it.

Sara, who's still a mystery that he wants to solve for entirely different reasons now. Whom he may be a little in love with if he's not careful.

A path he doesn't want to go down for many reasons. Dangerous for him, for her, for a lot of people. And the job. Always the job. It would be nice to think of one day, some day, daydreaming like a lovesick teenager. But it's not worth it, not when what he has with Sara is so important, not when it'll be destroyed when she finds out who he really is.

So, no worries and he'll continue to pretend, ignore the nag of worry at the back of his head, buckle down, do his work, let the chips fall where they may. Not much else he can do.

Sara asks for the autopsy report from the Edison case. He hands it to her and this time, she doesn't notice him staring.

FIN


End file.
